Get Cancer or Save a Quarter?

Such a toss up.

I buy the Target brand Up & Up shave gel cause everyone’s always saying generic is the same stuff as the name brand only cheaper.

cheap assPlus, the bottle is bigger than the others and being the mini-Sasquatch that I am, I go through it pretty quickly. (Funny though cause I rarely have time to shave my legs anymore, but I’m still blazing through the shave gel…go figure.)

This morning as I lathered up, I noticed a disclaimer staring back at me.



How had I never noticed this sentence before? Details are my thing. And you would think that the word “CANCER” would have caught my eye at some point. How long have I even been using this shit, I wondered. Ah, feck.

How could Target and the state of California knowingly sell this to me and many other unsuspecting customers who don’t have time to read labels?!

Those A-holes!

Maybe it was the work of Skintimate or Gillette trying to sabotage their competitors?

I picked up my husband’s name-brand Gillette shave gel and turned it over and over in my hands, trying to find the disclaimer that his might possibly maybe somehow give him cancer. Nope, didn’t find it!

I’m appalled, Target. How can you state that you make “good products at good prices for good people” when right next to it is a warning that it might give me cancer?

Promises, shmomises

Promises, shmomises

Cancer is not a good price. I’m pretty sure the last time I checked, cancer was at the top of the list of things I never want (along with a Backstreet Boys reunion and a third child.)

I’m aware that in this day and age it seems like everything has the potential to cause cancer–breathing, walking in the sunshine, goddamn genetics–but you can bet your ass that if I see the C word on something that I slather all over my body on a daily basis then that shit’s going in the trash.



Living Under a Rock

It’s a sad, sad day when your own mother is hipper than you. When she knows more about what’s current and trending than you do. Makes me want to get a facelift or better yet, some Botox. Not really, but sheesh, it’s alarming. Give the old woman an iPhone and she’s Queen of Social Media spouting off words like YouTube and Yelp. I’m surprised she doesn’t have her own Twitter handle before me.

About a month ago, my sister sent me a video called, “What Does the Fox Say” and ever since then I’ve wanted to shoot, skin, and wear that fox to a Sunday brunch. Not really as I could never harm a fly, seriously, I apologize to a fly before I smack the crap out of it with a dish towel. Who does that? It’s a FLY!


The fox song is a catchy tune that Auntie played while my daughter was staying at her house one weekend so I never had a chance. It was funny the first hundred times listening to it and watching my girls bounce up and down to the music. The fact that the big one knows the words and sings along makes me laugh, but now it’s just gotta go. We’ve probably added 20,000 views alone.

Well, come to find out that this video is quite popular. Here I was thinking it was a kid thing. Apparently the group Ylvis was on MTV at the VMAs and the song was used on DWTS (not that I watch either of those things). Then my own mother asked me if I’d seen the latest spoof from SNL with Kerry Washington, “What Does My Girl Say.” That was the moment I knew my mother was more relevant than me and I just wanted to crawl back under my rock and pretend that the outside world didn’t exist, like I do 99% of the time.

I wish I had the brain power and the energy to make my own video called, “What Does the Mummy Say?” so my daughter could sing it in her adorable little voice. She’d say, “Go to, Go to, Go to Sleep” “Eat your, Eat your, Eat your peas” and “Time-out, Time-out, Time-out, NOW!” “What does the Mummy say?” It’s an instant classic, a bajillion views…in my head.

Miley Cyrus Ain’t No Shirley Temple

I grew up watching black and white Shirley Temple movies, instantly falling in love with her perfect ringlets and undeniable dimples.

shirleyOf course I saw myself as Heidi living in the Swiss Alps with my gruff German grandfather learning how to milk goats and wear clogs. And as the adorable little orphan in Curly Top singing about animal crackers in my soup and also as the feisty little southern belle dancing down the stairs with Bojangles Robinson himself in The Little Colonel.

dancing with Uncle Billy

Whether it was intentional on her part or not, my mother made me a huge nerd. She’s the one who introduced me to Shirley in the first place. She deemed her a worthy role model, letting me dress up as her in third grade complete with a top hat, cane, and the best ringlets my straight hair would hold. She helped me with my book report on her that same year and it was my proudest accomplishment of third grade, next to my kick-ass volcano.

When I think of the role models my daughters might have, I get a little worried to put it mildly. Remember cute little Hannah Montana?hannah montana

Well, I don’t know if she was ever cute or innocent, but I’m sure a lot of young girls watched her with the same adoration I had when I watched Shirley. And we all know how that ended…a twerking nightmare.

I can just imagine if Shirley Temple was a child-star today. How she’d grow up to shed her “nice girl” image claiming that performing half-naked with her tongue hanging out of her head was staying true to herself as a performer. She’d sing “On the Good Ship Lollipop” wearing assless chaps humping a giant foam sucker and twerking till the cows came home cause that’s what entertainment is these days.

Forgive me, Shirley. You would never stoop so low. Plus, you had real talent. You were, and still are, America’s Sweetheart for a reason, not because your daddy had an Achy Breaky hit in the early 90’s. I know my daughters will see the same magic in you that I saw and I can’t wait to share your movies with them.

To sum up, the nerdification of my daughters will definitely be intentional. They will wear glasses whether they need to or not. They will idolize Shirley Temple and play with horses until they’re eighteen. They will never listen to pop music and will never leave the house. Only now as mother do I understand why I couldn’t watch Dirty Dancing when I was nine and was twenty the first time I watched Pretty Woman. Like I said…total nerd.

Addicted to Chachi

Remember that show Joanie Loves Chachi? Joanie loves ChachiYeah, me neither. It was before my time. Spinoff from Happy Days, Scott Baio from Charles in Charge fame? Anyway, the “Chachi” I’m talking about here is my daughter’s beloved nickname for her pacifier…which she still has. I’m so embarrassed and ashamed to admit that I let my 2 1/2 year old still use a pacifier. I was always one of those people who said as soon as the kid could walk, that thing was gone. Yet, here we are a year and a half after she started walking and she clings to them like a junkie to a needle, like a fat kid to cake, like me to my shred of sanity.

We called the pacifier a paci or passy like other families, bypassing the outdated term of binky. Chachi came about organically. She called it something that sounded like chachi and it stuck. She even had a little song and dance about it. “I got a chachi. I got a chachi” swaying her little hips side to side while waving her chachi in the air. chachiIf you asked my friends, it sounded like she was singing about something else entirely.

She’s a full-on chachi hoarder! It’s not like she’s happy with just one. Oh no! That would be far too simple. She needs a minimum of two and prefers three or more. I remember how it happened. When she was nine months old we used to stock her crib with a couple extras for those middle of the night wakings so she could flail around and find one in her sleep. Well, that ultimately backfired on us and now she needs them to cuddle and rub against her nose. However, this might be more than a learned behavior it might be genetic and the person I have to blame is myself! Apparently I was a chachi fanatic just like my chip off the ol’ block. However, I called it a poey (Long o sound like Joey with a p–didn’t want you thinking I called it a pooey). I used to rub my nose with the poey to soothe myself as well. One day when I was two my mom told me “no more poey” so I calmly turned it over without so much as a fuss. Not going to be the case for my little petunia. I’ve been getting her used to the idea that chachis are only for babies and now that her sister is no longer a baby, we need to pass them on. She adamantly refuses this conversation and idea. I’ve even told her the chachi fairy will bring her an awesome present, yet she tells me she’s not giving them up. Eff the Chachi Fairy in so many words.

Not too long ago I read something by Erma Bombeck about pacifiers from her book, Motherhood: The Second Oldest Profession. She talks about the mothers of her generation being closet pacifier advocates. She never wanted her own mother to know that she used them with her children. I get it. I start to perspire when I think about the world witnessing my giant child with a chachi in her mouth. I can just hear the judgement swirling around their heads. Lucky for me she only uses them in the car and in bed.

Erma writes that the pacifier signaled that we can’t cope with our children. Ding! Ding! Ding! Hit the nail on the head–at least in my case. When her mother saw her grandchild with a pacifier she said, “Do you know that if you keep using this pacifier, by the time this baby is four years old, her teeth will come in crooked and her mouth will have a permanent pout?” To which Erma replied, “Do you know, Mother, if I do not use that pacifier, I may never permit her to become four?” My sentiments exactly! And why my toddler still has a chachi obsession! If she didn’t use those things at night, who knows what kind of crappy sleeper I’d have on my hands. Guess I’ll find out soon enough when I take them away.

“We American pioneers of the pacifier have given it the respectability it deserves. After all, what other force in the world has the power to heal, stop tears, end suffering, sustain life, restore world peace, and is the elixir that grants mothers everywhere the opportunity to sleep…perchance to dream?”

Amen, Mama!

Wish I could’ve remembered this passage when I was up at 2 am this morning frantically searching the dark corners of my baby’s crib for her stinking pacifier to quiet her uproarious cries. Maybe then I wouldn’t have cursed those plastic pieces of crap to hell. Then it hit me, I’m the chachi pusher.

Hello, my name is One Funny Mummy and I’m an addict…of peace and quiet!

Dragon Breath Revisited

Cut to two kids later  and I’m finally coming around to the idea that I need coffee, or more specifically caffeine, to survive.

mama needs

But I’ve been balking at this realization. I don’t want to succumb to the dragon’s breath that is in my future. As I’ve written before, my mom’s dragon breath has haunted me for decades and I’m not ready to submit my daughter to the same torture. Although now I like the idea of making her put up with my bad breath…she makes me put up with her shenanigans, so why not get some revenge where I can?!

First off, I’m not a hot drink kind of person. I don’t like to deal with a burnt tongue all day. However, I just learned that coffees come iced. Second, I discovered the wonderful world of lattes. They have more sugar than a Willy Wonka chocolate factory, which is right up my alley.

My kind of coffee

My kind of coffee

Recently I ordered a vanilla latte while the hubby ordered a plain iced coffee. I took a drink of mine, slightly grimaced at the coffee taste, but realized I could power through it for the caffeine buzz at the end of the rainbow. So what if it left an aftertaste as if I’d been licking the cat’s butt. Then I took a quick swig of the hubby’s and about vurped. I had the worst bitter beer face. That shit was lethal. Tasted like ass roasted in cow dung. At least what I imagine ass roasted in cow dung would taste like. I went back to my vanilla latte and it was pure heaven. Sweet, sugary heaven.

Now I’m on a quest to make my own iced lattes at home because I had a coffee epiphany. Coffee is crack–legalized crack. It makes everything better.

Makes me like my kids better. Makes me feel like I can conquer the world…or at least deal with my two *screaming idiots* for twelve straight hours without wanting to ship them to Siberia every other minute.

don't make meNo wonder my mom consumed three daily pots of coffee since I can remember. Mummy really does know best!


*Screaming idiots is a term of endearment in our household*

Caillou = The Worst

Before I became a parent, I was one of those annoying people who used to talk about what I would and wouldn’t let my hypothetical child do (don’t worry, we all do it). Well, not watching TV was on that list. Remember I said before I became a parent.

Then the baby turned into a toddler and against my better judgment I let her watch a little TV which became a lot of TV. Big mistake because she somehow fell in love with the most miserable cartoon ever created…Caillou. Although it seems every children’s show throughout history has driven parents to drink (don’t even get me started on Barney!), this one really takes the prize. For those of you who haven’t been tortured by listening to Caillou’s whiny, nasally voice complain about everything, consider yourself lucky. He is a snotty little wanker with a bald head and a terrible attitude. An attitude that my daughter has adopted. She’s like his little clone.

This is totally a thing!

“Teaching kids to be whiny brats since 1997.” See, it’s totally a thing!

I brought this on myself by letting her watch him in the first place. Then I made matters worse by buying her a set of Caillou books, a puzzle, and the DVD. It’s the damnedest thing. You want to give your child the world even if it’s something you can’t stand, because a teeny tiny piece of you enjoys watching it with her because she loves it so much. I’m not saying I like Caillou–I loathe him, if loathing a cartoon character is possible– but I like making her happy and more importantly, keeping her quiet while Mummy cleans the kitchen.

But we finally had enough. Daddy put his foot down once we realized she sounded just like that bratty little twat. So we banned him and have been a Caillou-free household ever since. And I must admit it is nice! Wish I would’ve done it ages ago! I don’t hum that stupid theme song every five minutes like I used to and I don’t have to look at his stupid face and listen to his stupid parents who are drawn the exact stupid way but with different hair.

We’ve moved on to Sophia the First. At least she’s a pleasant little girl who became a princess overnight, so there’s no pretentiousness there. I’ve never heard her complain once. She talks to animals and remains friends with the village folk. Now, there’s a role model my daughter can look up to! However, if she starts saying the animals talk back to her, we might have a problem.

The Commoner's Princess

The Commoner’s Princess

Top Ten Signs You Might Be a Mummy


Your day is over before it even begins.

You forget to order ice in your iced coffee.

You think a complete meal is two animal crackers and a sip of watered down grape juice.

You haven’t gone to the bathroom by yourself in over a year.

You have more peanut butter on your clothes than your toddler does.

You shave your armpits twice because you can’t remember if you already did it or not.

You can’t remember the last time you moisturized…anything!

You want to punch that no-good Caillou in the face.

You think sleeping until 7 is a luxury (or sleeping at all, for that matter!).

You would sell your soul (or maybe your children) for a glass of wine and a bubble bath.